


Recovery

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, mystrade, pre-Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:59:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2197929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warming up to try to get back to Time and Memory, now that most recent gig is done. (NEED MORE GIG) Meanwhile this was quick and in my mood range. </p><p>Mycroft's recovering from a fairly serious assassination attempt, sometime post-season 3. </p><p>This is--low key by most fanfic standards. Restrained. But ideally it's a reasonable start to something that would grow later. Needy Mycroft who doesn't know he's needy; nurturing Lestrade who's quite a bit more aware.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery

Mycroft slid out of the car, easing himself gingerly, unfolding with pained caution, moving like an arthritic preying mantis. He hurt in places he’d barely acknowledged he possessed a few weeks before. This, he thought, dourly, was only what you could expect after surviving a serious assassination attempt: a job-related hazard, nothing more. At least his rank was such that between the NHS, MI6’s own health provisions, and his own savings he could count on the best of care.

It still hurt like bloody hell. He still had bruises just beginning to turn from purple-black to vicious green. He still moved like a centenarian—or like the Tin Man of Oz with a bad case of rust and no oil can in sight.

Thank God he was already known for carrying his umbrella. He could use it as a cane without drawing too much attention to how much he _needed_ a cane. He set the steel point securely on the concrete of the underground car park, and levered himself fully upright, hand clutched tight around the polished bentwood handle. He took a deep breath, and strode confidently out into the open space, and took a pose—leg crossed as jauntily as he could manage, head high.

He could hear Lestrade’s car pulling in the level up, followed by the man’s easy, loping footsteps as he came down the ramp from the upper storey. Times like this Mycroft knew with Holmesian certainty that Lestrade had served as a foot-cop for a time, and still spent more time in the field than his MET position strictly required. He watched as the man materialized out of shadow, his light overcoat flapping as he moved—far less dramatic than Sherlock’s flouncing Belstaff, but somehow suited to him. His hands were deep in his pockets, eyes studying Mycroft closely as he approached.

“Oi! Look at you, then, looking like you didn’t just get out of hospital.” Lestrade smiled, but his eyes were still serious as he considered the man in the center of the open space. He came to a stop in front of Mycroft, and looked him up and down. “Sherlock said you were too tough to kill—but this time out the wanker sounded like he wasn’t so sure.”

“You could tell by the jolly lilt to his voice?” Mycroft managed a tight, forced smile, expecting Lestrade to tell him at length about Sherlock’s pleasure in his downfall…if only in the errors that had led to him missing the likelihood of the impending attack. Instead, to his surprise, Lestrade looked quite sober, and shook his head.

“Bugger was arse-over-tea-kettle, if you want the truth. I don’t think it had occurred to him you were merely mortal. He’s still spinning like a Christmas top.”

Lestrade had lovely eyes. Mycroft knew it, though he seldom permitted himself to do more than note it and let it pass. Today he stood patiently as those wide, dark eyes studied him from top to toe, seeming to notice far more than Mycroft was used to other people taking in. After a moment Lestrade raised a hand and gestured, fingers seeming to glide inches above Mycroft’s cheekbone. “Still got a bruise there, yeah?”

Mycroft pulled a face. “Bruises all over, if you must know. It’s demoralizing. Now they’re turning green I look like an algae monster from a Doctor Who episode, or something equally revolting.”

“Been there.” He cocked his head. “Still hurt, don’t you?”

“Quite.”

Lestrade chuckled, and Mycroft found himself returning an honest, real smile, not the brittle public smile that was trained into his façade.

“Yeah, takes a good while to feel human again. Seeing someone for physio?”

“Too many people.” Mycroft’s voice made his misery too plain, and he gruffly added, “Between the pain and the bullying and the groping…it’s quite dreadful.”

“Yeah, those blokes are no respecters of persons, are they?”

Mycroft shook his head, still smiling slightly, thinking ruefully of his earlier appointment with one of his therapists. He drew a breath and was about to ask how Lestrade’s most recent fieldwork was coming, when, to his surprise, the other man bounced on his toes, gave him a fierce, burning look, and growled, “Hell, Mike, I’m glad you came through. Welcome back, you poker-faced sonofabitch.”

And hugged him….

To say it was unexpected would not simply be an understatement, but a complete error. It had never occurred to Mycroft, and he wasn’t ready for it at all.

Lestrade was shorter than Mycroft was—enough to have to stretch and reach up to wrap his arms around Mycroft’s neck and pull him close. Mycroft staggered slightly, unintentionally dropping his umbrella, then having to clutch Lestrade’s shoulders to keep from falling over.

It was a strong hug—arms tight, head tucking firmly into the curve of Mycroft’s neck. One hand patted Mycroft on the shoulder; the other appeared to be fisted into the turn of Mycroft’s jacket-collar. Lestrade growled lightly, like a little bear, a man-sound that somehow conveyed enormous affection without being fussy or frilly.

Mycroft was a Holmes, and as a Holmes he noted too many things at once, cascading over him.

Lestrade was comfortable—at ease. The tension in his body was intense, but not stressed. He had to reach high, draw up, and his muscles pulled Mycroft close, but there was nothing in the gesture that spoke of anything but spontaneous affection and relief.

He was warm. Solid—a sturdy man, well-built, still slim but filled out.

He smelled of common soap (Unscented Castile? Perhaps…). He’d shaved earlier that day, but not so recently that his stubble hadn’t begun to come through, gritting slightly against the fine wool of Mycroft’s suit.

He…

He meant it. If a hug could be “sincere,” this one was. As Lestrade released Mycroft, leaning back from the hug, letting his arms slide down, his eyes smiled. He grinned, a happy, welcoming expression that made Mycroft’s breath catch in his chest. “Welcome back.”

Mycroft swayed, unsteady, not even aware of the dropped umbrella. “I…” He swallowed, forced himself to breathe. “Um…thank you, Lestrade.”

His own voice sounded thin and too tight. He tried again, frowning with the effort. “I…I appreciate your concern. Thank you.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes and grimaced. “Eh—Pushed too hard, didn’t I? I keep forgetting you Holmeses are shy things.” He shot Mycroft a crooked smile. “Sorry. Just happy to see you up and on your feet… Which,” he added, as Mycroft swayed, “I’ve kind of wrecked.” He leaned over and retrieved Mycroft’s umbrella, offering it handle first. “Sorry.”

Mycroft shook his head and wrapped his fingers around the wood. “I…um. I’m…I’m fine. I’m sorry. Just a bit… I mean…” He frowned. “People don’t usually hug me. Well—foreign ambassadors, on occasion. French, Italian. Russian. And Mummy. But…” He frowned, and put the tip of the umbrella back on the floor. He laid one hand over the other, both folded over the curve of the handle. “People don’t hug me,” he said again, unsure what else to say.

Lestrade gave a wry, amused chuckle. “No, now, no need to go all worried. You look like a greyhound who thinks he’s done something wrong—all big eyes and frowning. Look—just chalk me up as the sort of bloke who slaps backs and gives hugs and drives the other blokes a bit crazy, you know? Get me drunk and I’m everybody’s friend.”

Mycroft studied him, then said, “I don’t think you are, though.”

Lestrade’s brows jumped, and he cocked his head. “No?”

“No. Oh, more than me or Sherlock—but who’s not?” Mycroft’s voice went sour. “You, though—you may slap backs—but not to excess, and never…blindly.”

“Deduction?” Lestrade had stilled, and his eyes were distant. Studying, no less than Mycroft or Sherlock studied people.

Mycroft shrugged. “It seems obvious. You’re not carelessly affectionate.”

Lestrade’s mouth quirked up at one corner. “No. Not careless. But…”

Mycroft nodded. “More outgoing than a Holmes. But again, who isn’t?” He forced himself to look away, then. “Have you made any progress on the Habib surveillance?”

“Yeah. You ask me, he’s clean. I’m not so sure about Faisul, though. The imam over at the mosque, though—I think he’s off the hook, too.”

“Good. Good,” Mycroft said, trying to bring his mind down to earth and to business. It was disturbing—to be so tired, to hurt so much still, to feel so fragile and fallible—and to have the sense-memory of that hug racketing through his mind and his body, not letting him focus on work.

He tested, trying to determine if it was a sexual response. God alone knew, Lestrade warranted such. Mycroft, thinking about it, concluded that a sexual reaction to the other man would be natural and easily summoned—but that wasn’t the problem. His body and mind kept reacting to warmth, to smiling eyes, to strong arms, not as a lover—though that was possible—but with a hunger Mycroft didn’t know how to name. He managed to keep his focus…more or less…asking Lestrade about various “persons of interest,” asking about MI5 plans to deal with shared issues.

Lestrade responded. As always, he was capable, professional, observant. There were reasons Mycroft had always trusted Lestrade with Sherlock’s well-being. There were reasons he’d often chosen Lestrade as his proxy in the field, as his eyes on the street. The man could play a fool, when he chose. He wasn’t a fool, though…

They were rapidly reaching the end of the business they had to cover. Mycroft wrapped up his questions, spent a few moments checking Lestrade’s ongoing plans, and nodded. “Very good—as always. A relief, knowing you’ve kept your eye on all this while I was…unable.”

Lestrade grinned. “Next time you get yourself tossed in hospital, maybe you won’t worry, right?”

Mycroft held back a smile, intentionally raising his chin and arching his eyebrows. “I have no intention of landing myself in hospital again, DI Lestrade.”

“Not entirely up to you,” Lestrade pointed out. “As I understand it, three assassins had something to do with it.”

“Four,” Mycroft said, primly, “And we’ve reviewed my security precautions. Once is understandable—but we have no intention to permit another such event.”

“Good.” Lestrade sounded unexpectedly serious. “Sherlock would fall to pieces if you died, you silly tosser…not to mention that the rest of us would be more than a bit upset if the British Government fell in the line of duty.”

He sounded like he meant it, Mycroft thought, surprised.

“Civil servants come and go,” he said, equally serious. “The British government, though—the _real_ British government—will carry on.” He shrugged. “Not that I intend to fall any time soon, but I assure you, the fate of the nation is secure, at least through the transition of power.” He nodded, politely. “And now, I’m afraid I’m supposed to go home and practice some of those wretched exercises my therapists have prescribed for me.” He waited until Lestrade nodded his understanding, then turned stiffly, and began the walk across the open space back toward his own car.

He’d been standing too long. He hurt—his joints stiff, his muscles complaining, his back aching with every step. So annoying, to be so slow to recover, he thought. Then he realized Lestrade was pacing him, only a foot or so away from his elbow. Mycroft stopped, and looked over. “I can manage,” he said, embarrassed.

“I’m sure you can,” Lestrade replied. “But—just in case we’re both wrong, yeah?”

Their eyes met. Mycroft frowned, and asked, plaintively, “Why do you care, Lestrade?”

The other man chuffed, amused. “Because I like you, you daft beanstalk? Yeah. I like you. And, hell, man, I’ve been where you are. It hurts, yeah?”

Mycroft risked a nod. “Yes.”

“So?” Lestrade cocked his head, chin jerking toward the car. “See you safely on your way, right?”

Mycroft nodded, and returned to his slow, stately progress toward the limo. “I’m sorry. I’m not very gracious. I’m unaccustomed to…help.”

“Uh-huh. Independent cuss, just like your brother.”

Mycroft noted that Lestrade seemed to find that amusing. “Being self-sufficient is, I will admit, a matter of some pride,” he acknowledged. “I’ve cared for myself since I left to go to uni, at sixteen.”

Lestrade nodded. “I hear you.” He slipped ahead of Mycroft, and swung the rear door of the car open.

“There are servants at the country house,” Mycroft said, hesitantly, frowning. “And—at my level of work, I have subordinates. And security personnel, of course. But—I live alone. I take care of myself.”

Lestrade leaned against the frame of the car and looked at him, amused. “And right now you’re fresh out of hospital and hurt like the devil. Give over, Mike.”

“Mycroft.”

“Mike.” Lestrade was laughing silently, eyes dancing. “Get in the car, you tosser. Or I’ll follow you home and make sure you eat a decent dinner, too. And then you’ll really be embarrassed.”

Mycroft stood, frozen, trapped between conflicting impulses, few of which he’d prepared for. The most dangerous was the sudden longing to suggest that Lestrade come over for dinner regardless.

It would be nice not to eat alone tonight.

“Wha’s wrong?” Lestrade studied him.

Mycroft shrugged, and said, in as cool and calm a voice as he could manage, “The company would be welcome, if you did. But that’s always the case. You’re a respected compatriot.” He gripped the upper edge of the door frame with one hand, tossing the umbrella onto the car seat. He glanced over at Lestrade. “I lay a simple table, but a sandwich and salad are easily provided. Perhaps soup?”

Lestrade’s brows furrowed. “You’re inviting me home?”

“I suppose I am,” Mycroft said, trying not to sound as though it mattered, and unsure why it actually mattered very much. “Again, simple fare. In my condition I doubt I can manage more than toasted cheese sandwich and tinned tomato soup.”

“You eat normal food like that?” Lestrade said, laughing.

“I am a single British bachelor,” Mycroft pointed out, tartly, trying to ignore the fact that he was clinging to the frame of the car, now, his body throbbing from hanging halfway in and halfway out. “Tinned beans on toast. Sausage and mash. Easy foods a man can make without too much fuss.” He looked away, into the car. “I can do better, but not…”

“Not when you’re feeling like you’ve been thrashed to within an inch of your life.”

“Half an inch, according to the doctors,” Mycroft said, closing his eyes and letting the exhaustion hit. “Any closer with the knife and tchkkkkkkk.”

He felt Lestrade’s hand suddenly around his waist, Lestrade’s shoulders slipping under the curve of Mycroft’s arm. “Get into the car, Mike. You need to sit down.”

“Ridiculous,” Mycroft said—but let himself be eased onto the smooth leather seat. “Dinner?” He was unhappy to hear the whiny need in his voice.

“Maybe. If you let me make the toasted cheese and soup,” Lestrade said, grumbling. “And get someone to drive my car over, so I can go home later?”

He could sleep in the guest bedroom, Mycroft thought, but was careful not to say. Instead he assured Lestrade he’d make arrangements, then, as Lestrade slipped into the car beside him, pulled out his phone and called Anthea to prove his good word.

Dinner was simple, just as advertised: a good sharp cheddar on grand bread that might easily have passed as homemade; plain cream of tomato soup; a simple salad of lettuce and cucumbers and onion with a light, sweet-tart dressing Lestrade made with vinegar and honey and not much more that Mycroft noticed. They drank their dark ale out of the bottle. They ate together at the kitchen table in Mycroft’s Pall Mall rooms.  Mycroft tried to understand why he was vibrating like a tuning fork, emotions oddly roused. Lestrade insisted he stay sitting, as the older man washed up the few dishes and set the electric kettle boiling.

They drank dark tea together, and swapped stories of their years in espionage and intelligence—and beyond.

Lestrade insisted Mycroft tell him the meds he was on, then went to fetch them, counting them out and waiting to make sure he took them all. In return Mycroft fussed and grumbled, but in a fashion even he had to admit was more pro forma than sincere.

Lestrade insisted Mycroft shower and change before Lestrade left—in case he fell in the shower. Mycroft snapped and grumbled more—and felt a profound and unsettling sense of relief knowing he wasn’t alone, facing the slick tiles.

At last he pattered out to the sitting room. Lestrade was sitting reading a book, settled deep in a leather armchair.

“You can stay, if you like,” Mycroft said, words slipping free before he could stop them.

Lestrade looked up, eyes surprised. “I…”

“You don’t have to.”

“Um…Yeah. No. I mean… I probably ought to be getting back.”

“The guest room’s clean and free.” Mycroft had never invited anyone to stay the night. Only two people had spent the night there—Anthea, prior to particular missions when it had proven more efficient and logical for her to leave from Mcyroft’s flat, with him, and Sherlock, when Sherlock had chosen to crash at Mycroft’s flat as though it were his own.

“Really, I ought to go home. Work tomorrow, and no change of clothes.”

Mycroft nodded, trying not to be disappointed, unsure why he was.

Lestrade stood and prepared to leave, searching for his coat, slipping his shoes back on.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. “I’m afraid I rather overestimated my stamina, today. It was good to have your help.”

“You’d have been fine,” Lestrade said, comfortingly. “But, yeah—it’s nice to have backup. Especially fresh out of hospital.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Surprisingly so.”

Lestrade nodded, too. “Yeah. I remember how shaky I was the last time ‘round.”

They stood in the entryway of the flat. “Maybe another time?” Mycroft said. “I make a decent spag bol.”

“I could bring some wine—no, wait. Bet you’ve got better wine than I could afford or even know to buy,” Lestrade said, smiling. “What about a good loaf of crusty bread? Got a great bakery around the corner from my flat.”

“Bread would be wonderful. Maybe…next week sometime?”

“Maybe sooner? While you’re still a bit shaky on your pins? And maybe get Sherlock over a night or two?”

“Sherlock would drive me mad.”

“Still—someone there, yeah?”

“Yes.”

They looked at each other. Mycroft cautiously offered his hand. “Thank you.”

Lestrade took it, shook it—then, with a snorting, chuffing sound, pulled Mycroft in for another hug. “Git. For the love of God, Mike, let people take care of you, all right?”

Mycroft found himself clinging tight, not knowing what to do or say. “But…”

“No ‘but.’ Me, Sherlock. I’ll talk to John and Mary, too. Idiot.” Lestrade leaned away again, and his hand came up one more time, this time actually tracing the bruise on Mycroft’s cheekbone, then dropping to touch another that blossomed over his collarbone and disappeared into the collar of his dressing gown and pajamas. “You nearly died.” Brown eyes met Mycroft’s. “That’s not something you just walk away from.”

Mycroft’s mouth smiled—tight, strained, a bit wobbly at the corners. “I’ve got obligations.”

“Yeah. To let us look after you. Idiot.”

Mycroft shrugged, nodded, and let his eyes drop, staring at his toes. “As you say.”

Lestrade studied him, then said, softly. “Bugger it. Get that PA of yours to trot a fresh change of clothes around here.”

Mycroft looked up. “What?”

“Tell her the blue suit. I’ve got court tomorrow. Now which way is the guest bedroom?”

“You’re staying?”

Lestrade shrugged, then laughed. “Yeah, genius. I’m staying.”

That night Mycroft lay in his bed, aware even in sleep of the man in the guest bedroom.

It was months before he understood how much knowing he was cared for changed everything…


End file.
